Apparently I’m Scottish

 

 

In my time in the UK, I’ve come across so many things that have delighted me, met wonderful people and – I have to admit – have been confused more than once.

I started doing things on my own in small steps. Walking to the grocery store was step one, which proved to be one of the easier tasks, since it’s on the same road I live on. But once inside, to pick up four or five items takes me a good twenty minutes – minimum.  For several reasons. I have decided to start a campaign to have companies espouse the need to label their items the same – worldwide – AND under the same name. In my efforts to clean ALL the things (see my previous blog post), I decided that I needed Vim, which I use in the kitchen and bathroom on a regular basis. I spent (if my iPod can be trusted), 17 minutes perusing the household items aisle (which is the middle aisle at our local Tesco’s) to discover that the company that makes Vim makes the product Cif – the same thing.

The first time I had to buy toilet paper, Andy put it on the list and I stared blankly at him.

“What’s toilet roll?” I asked.

“Toilet roll…you know, toilet roll!” he answered.

“Oh – toilet paper – right?” I clarified.

“Right, toilet roll!”, he answered patiently.

I found the aisle easily enough, and was slightly alarmed. Not only was there the regular variety of thickness, size of the roll and brand, but they were arranged by colour. I vaguely remember my mom, when I was a child, telling me the health risks associated with coloured toilet paper and how it was no longer sold in Canada. The last time I had seen coloured toilet paper was in the late Eighties, in my Grandmother’s house. Confused, in the way of impatient shoppers and slightly colour-blind from the lights (this is the story I’ve decided to go with), I quickly settled on yellow (actually, it was called Canary, I discovered when I got home) and moved on.

Returning home, Andy only had two things to say.

“Wow – luxury toilet roll! Wait – Michelle, it’s yellow!”

“It was on sale!” (Was the only answer I could think of. Coincidentally, it was).

Beyond brand confusion, and the fact that there are many items that aren’t sold in the UK that ARE in Canada, I have gotten somewhat used to navigating the stores. I still run into people. Literally. I also have started forming long lines behind me because I have summoned up the courage to try and start paying with change. In Canada, we have pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, Loonies and Toonies. Here, they have pennies, 2 pence, 5 pence, 10 pence, 20 pence, 50 pence, one pound and two pound coins. I have stuck out my hand, full of these foreign coins on more than one occasion to the frustrated cashier to have them easily pick out the change I need to pay for my items. I felt vindicated when I was at the post office – the kind gentleman who served me not only waited patiently, but cheered with me when I did it on my own. I had a sense of deja-vu, until I realized it was because I had reverted to 6 year-old Michelle who just learned how to make a dollar with a handful of change in Grade One while pretending to buy groceries. The groceries were plastic apples and bananas and “imaginary” eggs in someone’s kindly donated empty egg-carton. Who says we can’t go back to our childhood? I may take a nap, purely for nostalgia’s sake.

With the nature of Andy’s job, he occasionally has to make short trips away, and took his first one last week. The day he was due to return was my cleaning day. I got up, put some laundry on, cleaned the house and finished making my grocery list. It was more extensive than usual, so I took a few re-usable bags with me (they aren’t just for packing/moving anymore!) and a backpack and trekked downtown. I was feeling confident and completely able to do this on my own. I decided I needed a cart instead of my original basket. I also realized that I had no clue how much money I needed to insert to free up a cart. Apparently, asking how much I need for a cart was like asking what the bright thing in the sky was. The first woman laughed at me, the second was excessively sarcastic. It only took me another two and a half minutes to find the one pound coin. I guess I still need practice assimilating.

 An hour later (I had at LEAST ten items on my list, making my shopping trip longer than usual), I made the walk back up the hill home. Most days, this gentle incline could barely be called a hill – with a backpack full of canned pop, V8, juice, carrots, potatoes, and carrying a full bag on my arm – it was like ascending from basecamp to the summit of Everest. My decision to wear only a sweatshirt instead of a jacket was a wise one. I slowly put one foot in front of the other, beads of sweat slowly forming on my forehead and back, while people wearing toques, mittens, scarves and parkas walked by me thinking I was the crazy one for dressing in so little outerwear. The temperature was about 7 degrees.

The weather has been incredible. Walking outside with just a sweater on in the middle of January with neither boots nor mittens has been confusing. I had slowly been acclimatizing myself to the impending cold season in Canada before I left. My body was getting used to the colder temperatures, snow and freezing rain that comes with every winter in Ottawa. The day I left Ottawa it was -29 with the windchill. One particularly sunny day, Andy and I took a walk to do our shopping in a different part of Chelmsford. I reached for his hand.

“Andy, your hand is freezing.”

“I know. Give me yours. I’m convinced there is something seriously wrong with you. You have the warmest hands when we’re outside, yet you’re always freezing inside,” was his answer.

The flat is kept at a very reasonable 18 degrees. Not too hot, not too cold, but I have never believed in wearing socks. Stop moving, and your blood doesn’t circulate the same way. So I get cold indoors, and when I start walking outside, I’m warm and toasty. It’s a simple science.

One night, when walking from the train to home, the temperature hovered around zero. I walked along, warm, and marveling at how mild it was. Andy walked beside me, teeth chattering, fingers frozen and wasting no time in getting home. I guess some of us just aren’t cut out for the cold.

And Andy isn’t the only person who gets cold. Friday was drizzly and a little cooler, and I decided to walk down to the corner store. While making my purchase (I was the only one not wearing a coat), the shopkeeper was eyeing me suspiciously while I was talking to someone in line. He engaged me in conversation, and asked outright, “what part of Scotland are you from?”

“Scotland?” I asked, confused.

“Yeah, you were talking about the weather outside, and the only people here who dress like that and find this bearable are the Scottish,” he reasoned.

I narrowed my eyes and looked at him closely. I was wearing a sweater with “Canada” emblazoned on the front, and he had heard me speak for almost five minutes.

“I’m from Canada,” I said plainly, emphasizing the word Canada for added effect.

“Ah, you sounded Scottish,” was his answer.

To be perfectly honest, I’d rather be mistaken for being Scottish than American. I have, in a fashion, gotten used to being here, and forget I sound different from others around me. But quite frequently, I have people ask me where I’m from, “in America”. Andy always gives the offender a very sympathetic look for asking me such a question (knowing that I am about to embark on an epic diatribe), as I describe why it’s as offensive for me to be called American as it is for an Englishman to be mistaken as Irish. There is nothing wrong with either nationality, but I’m Canadian.

Feeling especially silly this afternoon, Andy and I were talking about ridiculous songs, so in tribute to my country, I played him Stompin’ Tom’s “Goodbye Rubberhead”.

“What the hell is this?” he said between spurts of laughter.

“It’s Stompin’ Tom! He’s such an icon of Canada, that maple syrup runs through his veins!” I announced.

I have been asked by friends and my own mother if I’ll adopt a British accent. Although I’ve picked up several words I wouldn’t have used before coming over to the UK, I don’t think I’ll ever sound English. I miss (occasionally) the snow, the wide roads, seeing a snowmobile at the gas pumps when filling up my car and seeing a hockey game on when I go to a pub. One thing I know for certain is that I am neither American OR Scottish. How aboot that, eh?

 

 

 

How is it REALLY going?

 

It’s been awhile since I’ve made a blog post, and I have several drafts that are neatly tucked away for when inspiration strikes and I can finally finish them. They are like the books I keep by the side of my bed – all have been started, and I have the best of intentions when it comes to finishing them, but like a toddler, I’m very easily distracted by shiny things. Now that Christmas is over and I’ve toasted in another new year, I’m ready to settle down and get back to writing regularly again. Unless I’m hopelessly struck by a case of writer’s block…or something else temporarily distracts me.

 

I posted about love and distraction and all the things happening in my life last time I seriously sat down at my laptop and hammered out an entry for my “blag” (if you don’t get that reference, I highly suggest wasting 15 hours or so flipping through the comics on the xkcd.com website).  Cynical Michelle took a sabbatical (not sure if/when she will return…sorry, Mark) and lovesick, annoying Michelle took the reins and started making mix CDs and crying over fabric softener commercials. True story.

 

So many people looked at me knowingly and wistfully and told me to enjoy this phase of the new relationship because it was only a matter of time before leaving the toilet seat up or flatulence would no longer be cute anymore, and really start to annoy me. (Cue Cynical Michelle). We have all heard the term “Honeymoon Stage” and I researched it before writing this post. I won’t bore you with the details, but I dutifully turned to Wikipedia for an answer : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Honeymoon. According to the person who wrote this article, these feelings fueled by oxytocin should start to wane in about a month. This is good news, since I really DO want to finish my stack of books and get on with my list of “Thirty Things to do Before I Turn Thirty”.

 

After finally packing and getting organized for my move to England, I made the trip over here about two weeks ago and even managed to unpack my bags the day after landing. There will be a follow-up post to this, as my tales of how I decided what to bring and how I managed to sort it all out and pack it are kind of…well…epic. A few days after moving in, I did what every conscientious and slightly neurotic woman would do. I cleaned. The entire apartment. The first day Andy went to London, I fairly cackled with glee at having him out from underfoot and being able to finally scrub every surface in the flat. I started my cleaning session the way I start everything – by turning up the music and wasting about an hour on the internet before getting the courage energy to tackle a living space that has been cleaned solely by a man.

 

Now before I continue, I have to preface this with giving Andy credit. For a man, he’s tidy. Everything is pretty much put away, he stays on top of the dishes and he knows how to iron. Last time I visited, I didn’t pay close attention to how clean everything was. We were busy, out of the flat quite a bit, and I was on vacation! Before the cleaning day I’m referencing above, I noticed the corners in the bathroom were creating armies of hair/dust bunnies.

 

“Andy – look at the floor!”

 

“What? I Hoovered it!”

 

“When?”

 

At this point Andy paused and asked me, “When did my parents stay with me?”

 

“Um…November.”

 

Keeping in mind that this is a conversation we had a week ago, and it is now January, we couldn’t keep a straight face. After watching me tidy up, he knew no answer would be the right one, and I *think* I rolled my eyes. I shouldn’t have been surprised. This is the same person that thinks making the bed means pulling the comforter up over the pillows. Done. I didn’t have the heart to tell him when he was at my Mom’s house that his bed making skills would be considered “sub-par” in my her eyes.

 

So I spent an entire day last week scrubbing, sweeping, vacuuming, wiping, scraping, washing and shuddering. I’m happy to report it’s been clean and organized ever since. Sitting on the sofa that night, Andy commented on how clean everything was and reaching for the remote on the bookshelf, he paused, mid-sentence, “…wait – did you dust the books too?” The next day while pulling out the pan and grill we used to make burgers, he asked me if I had discovered and cleaned THAT too. He’s still finding places and things around the apartment and good-naturedly, he chuckles at my enthusiasm to “Clean ALL the things”. Actually, if we’re being honest, I think he laughs AT me directly and secretly wonders how to cope with my OCD tendencies.

 

I suppose this is all a part of discovering how the two of us will operate in a small space together. Given the fact that he spends at least half his week working from home, we interact often. We’ve both been asked if he gets any work done while I’m around. We’ve come up with a couple of interesting solutions. I have gotten into the habit of taking a walk every day, which pretty much guarantees I’ll be out of his hair for a good hour. I am beginning to suspect that Andy is leaving things out to keep me busy tidying and putting things in their place. He admitted that it’s incredibly easy to push my buttons because I never let one thing go. Leaving a glass on the table, a pair of pants on the bedroom floor, or messing up the comforter provides him with endless entertainment I’m sure. I’m still waiting to see a youtube video, aptly titled “How to keep an OCD woman occupied and yourself entertained”.  I usually make lunch too – “Michelle, you heated up that soup SO well!” is something I’m getting used to hearing. If I’m starting to get chatty, he has two methods of getting me to shut up. He either dangles the word “reddit” like a biscuit for a dog, or soundly ignores me under the pretext of being incredibly busy. Meh – it works.

 

Sometimes, however, the simplest things are the things that make us laugh the most or truly enjoy each other’s company. While I’ve been doing the bulk of the cooking, I always have a willing and ready set of hands (even if it’s only to pour me a glass of wine…or two) and we have an Excel sheet in Dropbox with different meals to try, or ones we have tried and enjoy. Andy has had to keep an especially close eye on me when we go grocery shopping. First of all – no one told me the carts in England pivot on all four wheels. This made me ache to try and do some synchronized cart moves, with me, poised like a figure skater about to do a camel spin, groceries and all neatly arranged in the trolley. The stores are also much more crowded – for anyone who has seen “Night at the Roxbury”, I seem to say every three seconds “Sorry”, or “Excuse me”. Given the volume of my voice, my accent, and my surprise at constantly finding new and interesting things (or not finding what I was looking for at all) and my lack of an internal “stop” as it were, in announcing how strange things are over here amid the general population of Chelmsford – I’m sure I’m an embarrassment.  He has to remind me not to run into everyone and that I’m incredibly set in my ways.

 

I think – no, I know – that both of us have done some comparing to other relationships and how this one stacks up. I can’t speak for the man, but I know it’s a completely different dynamic for me. For the time being we’ve assumed more stereotypical gender roles, but I can live with that. He taunts me relentlessly about how often I clean, but I think he appreciates it. There’s a lot of respect, if you don’t count when he talks about his superior Scrabble skills. Just for the record, I’ve come close to beating him on more than one occasion, and he will never tell you that every other game we play I beat him. Soundly. (Except Halo, but he’s bad at it too, so I think we both prefer not to talk about it). We laugh a lot. Mostly at me. We share a lot of serious things and silly things. We coexist rather peacefully.

 

To answer all of you at once – how is it REALLY going? Well. Very well. 

The Drama Factor

I must have known something was up before I was even born. Four days late, they pulled me reluctantly, via C-section from my mother who insisted instead of being born three days past my due date on her birthday, on the 7th of April so I would have my very own birthday. I was happy, warm, cozy and in no rush to embrace a world that was full of drama. Ever since that day, in 1983, I’ve been trying to go back to bed, it seems. Most people have warm memories of family get-togethers, holidays and trips which go off without a hitch, but I am an inveterate klutz, someone who always has a good story and seems to do things with the most amount of confusion. From the time I dropped an entire tray of carefully frosted cupcakes at my great-grandfather’s ninetieth birthday party on the gravel driveway (which my mom carefully scraped away and served them anyway, tears of laughter escaping the corners of her eyes), we all knew that I was trouble. With a capital “T”. I wasn’t allowed to carry trays of drinks, to plan anything or to be relied upon for solving the world’s problems. I was admonished to the back seat, the back row, and told to keep quiet and behave. I distinctly remember during my mother’s second wedding remembering a joke so funny that I could scarcely keep from letting giggles escape me and ruining one of the most poignant moments of my parents’ lives. This is my cross to bear. Drama.

Growing up, it was tacitly understood that my older-younger sister was the dramatic one of the family. She did everything with gusto – emoted with the best of them. We imagined her on stage, pouring out the bevy of emotion she seemed to carry with her at all times. To this day, we are certain that my son has inherited (even though I spent the better part of my childhood trying to convince her she was adopted and had no genetic connection with the rest of us) her dramatic personality, to the point my ex-husband shakes his head and says that Myles is “all Becky”. I’m starting to realize that this may not be the entire truth. I guess I’m dramatic in a different way. One friend keeps telling me that he stays friends with me because I have a lust for life and it’s never boring with me. Recently, my sister told me we are cut from the same cloth. I wholeheartedly agree with her.

I won’t start at the beginning to chronicle the series of events that prove my attraction of complication in my life, but I will start with more recent events that will give you an idea of how even the mundane can become fodder for stories that make you shake your head. When meeting old friends, the question of “What’s new” is usually answered by “Not much”, but I warn you – if you ask me what’s new, you’d better have three hours and a very large bottle of red wine, because it’s always a “long story”. Conversely, what sometimes seems like a very complicated task comes easy to me. Take planning my wedding. Most women dream of their wedding for years, have scrapbooks, or spend a small fortune buying magazines and planning their big day. I can clearly remember being dragged into the bridal store under duress, convinced I didn’t need a wedding gown. “Michelle, it can’t hurt to try one on,” my very frustrated mother told me when it came to selecting a dress. “Yes it can,” I said. “You pick one. I don’t NEED to wear a wedding dress. In fact, let’s make things easy – we don’t even need catering. How about potluck?” My mother, clearly horrified, selected the menu for my wedding and even paid for the catering as a wedding gift, after I told her I wasn’t even going to consider hiring someone to pay for food. She dutifully selected about 6 gowns for me to try on, was relieved when I settled on trying 3 on, and I chose the cheapest one in the store that fit. I was like a cranky child going to fittings, and was more interested in the kind of reception I wanted to have and getting creative with arts and crafts for centrepieces (which, by the way, cost less than $6 a table and were stunning). The drama, came on the wedding day.

I was calmer than everyone and got married on a beautiful September day in my parents’ backyard. When standing to recite my wedding vows, the most important part of the whole shebang, the minister was interrupted by a wasp flying around her head and completely skipped over parts of the speech she had carefully selected in advance because I was adamant about having the simplest affair possible. Swatting at the insistent insect, Morley was in tears with emotion and I was considering the implications of not repeating the same thing my then-husband-to-be had just said to me. “Morley,” I whispered loudly after the ceremony, “you know that in the eyes of Darwin we’re not REALLY married. You missed part of your vows, just as I missed mine.” Morley, clearly upset by how flippant I was acting responded, “Michelle there are about ten things wrong with what you just said. We did NOT get married in the eyes of Darwin, we just signed a marriage license and who CARES what we just said to each other, now I’m stuck with you. Just go with it, please.” To this day, I’m convinced that because we eschewed the traditional, and because of one little bee, our marriaged was doomed. Okay, I don’t really believe that, but to this day, that one thought sticks out – a bee changing the course of our marriage. Ask him, and he has a much bigger list of why things went wrong. The bee probably doesn’t even crack the top twenty.

Being pregnant was something that I also thought would cause drama. I was expecting horrendous morning sickness, complications, and believed that I was destined to have twins. I was positive. When I learned that instead of two adorable little girls that would ride ponies and look JUST like me, I was having a little boy, I was a little thunderstruck. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was relaxed, casual, and kept putting the actual birth process out of my mind. I thought if I ignored it long enough, I’d remain pregnant forever. I wasn’t into birth plans, or natural childbirth or anything so ambitious. I was all about the drugs. “Look,” I explained very calmly to my then-mother-in-law, who believe that epidurals would somehow cripple me and maim my child, “if you broke your hip in a horrible accident slipping on the ice, the first thing, the VERY first thing they would do is give you painkillers. You don’t go to the hospital and say ‘Geez, I think I want to do this naturally and let nature take its course!’ You ask for the strongest and best drugs they have and you take them in a cocktail glass with olives.” Horrified, the quiet, sweet older woman looked at me and I’m sure said a small prayer for my soul.

The actual birth process was something I relish telling women who haven’t yet had children. The ones who really do have a natural birth plan. The reality is, I was in active labour for 50 hours. It seemed like I was in labour for about 5 weeks. Three weeks into labour (okay, more like 20 hours), trying to bring on stronger contractions, I decided to take a little stroll to get some ice with my mom. We heard horrible screaming, that kept getting worse. I was now convinced that someone was skinning a poor woman in labour alive, and by the time I managed to waddle back to my room, I was trying to pack my bag and leave. “That’s it. I’m done,” I sobbed, “I am not having this baby. He’s not coming out of me, and I’m leaving.” No amount of cajoling or soothing could make me change my mind. It took a hefty dose of Nubaine, my ex-husband, my mother and a nurse to convince me that I couldn’t just stop the birth of my son and that like prison, I had to do my time. Unlike prison, I didn’t get to choose my last meal and I wasn’t released for good behaviour. Plus, those stirrups and medical equipment were akin to medieval torture devices. I was re-thinking the entire business. I eyed them suspiciously and decided no human being was entering the world this way, not out of me. I ended up doing my time, and after agreeing to an epidural (they always seem like a good idea until someone shows up with the largest needle you can conceive and tries to tell you that sticking it into your spine will magically take all pain away) ended up on the operating table anyway. I sent away the anesthetist at least three times, but after my hips and buttocks looked like a pincushion and I was starting to see the attraction of that giant needle and all the pleasure it could bring. Best. Decision. Ever. Fifty hours is like a freaking marathon. Longer than a standard work week, and I did it all IN A ROW. Again, I couldn’t be normal. I had to do things the hard way. And the woman screaming? She was in the hospital to visit a friend, felt her water break, dilated to ten cm in less than ten minutes and had her baby in less than five. I would scream too.

I managed to live fairly drama-free until recently. I was a stay-at-home mom of sorts, going through some medical complications until I was fully healed, and back in the workforce. I have chronicled some of my difficulties in learning to ride public transportation in my early blog posts, losing $20 bills to impatient bus drivers, nearly losing my life wearing heels, and seemingly able to attract only the buses that break down on the coldest days of the year on the parkway. Even recently, I have this incredible habit of setting out exactly at the time OC Transpo trip planner says I should and watching the last express whiz by me, completely ignorant to my careful planning and need to be in a certain place at a certain time. Maybe I should think about getting up a little earlier, but where’s the fun in that?

I had even gotten used to riding the bus, but living in the east end of the city and driving Myles necessitated taking my poor car back and forth daily. I was flirting with danger, I know, when driving down the Queensway in rush hour traffic, people would roll down their windows and politely inform me that the bumper of my car was about to fall off. Didn’t they KNOW that I knew? Wasn’t it blatantly obvious by the way I avoided all eye contact and stared straight ahead? I was embarrassed by my car the same way a recalcitrant teenager is of their parents. Something to be endured until they could get the hell out of Dodge. (No pun intended).

Everything finally fell apart (literally, not figuratively…well maybe a little of both) the night that my bald tires finally said “no more”. I had been driving on tires that needed changing for almost a year. I kept MEANING to go and have them changed, but I kept thinking I was going to buy a new car anyway, why spend the money? Fortunately, the night my left front tire finally gave way it was close to my new home. The only person I knew that could have the upper body strength to help me in Orleans was my ex-husband. I’m sure he still rues the day that he ever agreed to help me (or maybe not, his new car IS pretty fancy, and it’s all thanks to me).

“Morley, I’m on the side of the road. My tire is flat.”
“And?” was his reply.
“I need you to change it,” I said.
“Michelle, for God’s sake, isn’t there anyone else that can help you?”
“No. Unless you count Andy, but he’s in England, so I think you’d be of more help to me.”

After a lot of swearing, he finally agreed to help me. Not only was my tire flat. I was missing the tire iron, and his didn’t fit the nuts on the wheel to get the flat tire OFF. Also, being a fine piece of American metal, they were fused on by 15 years of rust. He went off to Walmart, the only store open at that time to get a new tire iron, and I, with only a beach towel to keep me warm that was hidden in the recesses of my car, waited patiently. I didn’t have to wait long. Someone alerted the local Fire Department of my situation, and I was rescued by three firemen that changed my tire, let me wear their jacket, gave me coffee and let me play with the lights in their truck.

That would be enough of a story for some people, but in true Michelle fashion, the drama was just beginning. Morley, tired and frustrated and cold, was t-boned in an intersection coming back to follow me to the gas station since the spare I had was almost flat. Calling him because I was cold and just wanted to go home, the phone was answered in a peculiar matter by the Ottawa Police. They wanted to inform me that Morley was okay, but his car wasn’t. They also wanted to know if, as his girlfriend, if I could get there okay.

“Why, what….I’m not his girlfriend, I’m his ex-wife!” I sputtered.

“Uh….okay, ma’am. Is there someone else we can call?” He stammered.

I was, of course, worried. I limped in my poor car to the nearest gas station to fill the spare with air, and leaving the station finally heard a resounding, “CLUNK”. The muffler had finally had enough. I have, for the protection of my own merit and reputation, deleted the pictures, but ask certain people and they will tell you how amusing it is to look at a muffler that not only fell off, but is in pieces dragging on the ground. Just as I was thinking I had reached the maximum number of “bad things” that could happen, my brakes finally gave way, and I became skilled at driving with the emergency brake on. I’m an expert at that as well.

The apparent death of my beloved automobile was met with cheers and relief from the people that love me most. Andy insists my car was trying to not only commit suicide, but kill me in the process. Let’s not even begin to talk about the day I tried to pick up lunch and my car hydroplaned itself over two medians, into the path of an oncoming tractor-trailer and backwards down the exit eastbound onto the 417. It could have been worse….right?

Even when I am doing something I’m good at, or inclined to be good at I seem to end up failing at. This summer at work, I was fortunate enough to get the task of organizing an almost company-wide softball charity tournament. In my element, I approached all the details, the creative side of it with gusto and put together a great day. My team convinced me that instead of running all the logistics, given that I used to play a little softball for fun, that I join them in their practices and play when I could on the big day. I had been moaning about choosing softball as a sport to play for our company, which largely employs Engineers. These are the same men who follow me around when I produce a cart of leftovers from lunch. The same men who react like Pavlov’s dog when they see me, instantly salivating not because they find me attractive, but because their ability to consume large amounts of sugar and starch seem to be a talent they have cultivated, which is evident by their growing waistlines and sedentary lifestyles. So, I bit. Accepting the challenge, I dutifully donned my runners and went out to practice. It all STARTED well. I was catching and throwing and was getting into the game. It wasn’t MY fault that an errant pitch hit me on the side of the foot, breaking a bone with a snap and that I ended up hobbling around the tournament with a crutch. It’s just that Murphy and I have a very intimate relationship – his law was written almost solely for me.

My posts have clearly illustrated that I am in love, and the poor man whom I am in love with has now seen this ill-fated side of me. Most recently, his trip to Ottawa included the very romantic idea of going to see Kings of Leon. We had listened to their albums together during candle-lit evenings and were thrilled at the prospect of sharing something like this concert, given our appreciation of music and what this particular band meant to us. A small lapse in attention on my part almost ruined the entire evening. I have two purses which I tend to go between – my sensible Mountain Equipment Co-op bag and my soft, green, leather bag. I have pockets for all the important things, and ever since CAA cancelled my membership for locking my keys in my car and leaving my lights on so many times in the most remote of locations, I have been fairly diligent about ensuring that my phone, keys, wallet and the like are with me at all times. I checked for the concert tickets before I left the house, during the car ride, in the parking lot, even at the gate while they were being scanned. I gave Andy his as a keepsake, and kept mine. I decided to wander outside before the concert started.

“Andy, I am just running to the washroom and to have a cigarette before they start. Be back in five.”

Believing my tiny bladder could hold on, I decided since outside was closer, I’d run out there, and then hit the bathroom on the way back. Approaching the gate, ticket in hand, I demanded to know if I’d be allowed to return.

“Yup.”

“Are you sure? You won’t turn me away? I can REALLY get back inside?” I asked worriedly. I have begun to recognize my ability to realize the “what if” situations.

“Yes, just keep your ticket and I’ll scan it when you come back in,” he said rolling his eyes.

I should preface the next part with the fact that this happened to be the rainiest and windiest evening yet this year in Ottawa. I decide instead of trying to find one of the four lighters that was probably at the surface of my purse, I decided a match would be a much better idea. It took me seven matches before someone else lit my cigarette. Waving a thanks, my ticket, which I had safely tucked under my arm, flew away, across the parking lot and into the dark. Gone. I dropped the cigarette, ran back inside and went to the gentleman who scanned me out.

“Ticket ma’am.”

“I was just here. I went outside, and it blew away!” I said panicked.

“How do we know that you didn’t just give it to someone else to get in?”

I narrowed my eyes. Didn’t he KNOW Andy was in from England and that I might just want to sit beside him? In the end it took about ten minutes of explanation, pleading and finally, tears to get them to let me back inside, and the promise that I would NEVER try to go outside again. When I returned to my seat, Andy just rolled his eyes and said he was faced with his own dilemma – to stay and watch the concert or try and find me from God-knows-where. And knowing me, he’s right. I could have been stuck in any situation. The possibilties were endless.

The catalyst for me even conceiving of writing this particular post probably came tonight. I worked inordinately late, and work furnished me with taxi chits so I could get home safely, since taking the bus has been taking me almost three hours in each direction. I called the cab company we use, checked that I had the chits, my keys, my phone, etc and got in. I should have called them back. First of all, the driver was ten minutes late because he got lost on March Road. To my Ottawa friends, a cab driver that makes his living driving in the west end of Ottawa should have an intimate relationship with the Business Park. Strike two should have been that he kept telling me that Rap and Jazz fusion was the wave of the future and even found a station that played it and insisted at playing it so loudly that I kept having to ask him to repeat himself when he asked me if I had ever considered keeping ferrets as pets. (Cue me showing everyone the scars on my fingers from a ferret related adventure, a story of which I care not to repeat). Finally directing him to the Queensway (“Is that like the 417?” he asked me, and I kid you not), I was starting to drift off when I noticed I was dizzier than usual. “Is that gas?” I asked in a worried tone.
“Don’t worry! There is a small leak in the tank. I have only run out four times,” he assured me with a chuckle. I was starting to have thoughts of being stranded on the highway in the cold, while the meter was still running. Finally reaching my destination, I started to replay scenes from Silence of the Lambs when I noticed my seatbelt would not come undone, and that the door handle on the inside of the van was broken off, and I had to wait for him to come around the other side and open it for me. I was looking for the discarded bottle of Chianti and the Favre beans.

So, I’ve come to embrace this slightly klutzy, all interesting side of myself. Next time, don’t ask me what’s new. Just smile and nod.

Reason for Travel Factor

Further to my post about being distracted, and since I’ve officially changed my “relationship status” on Facebook, I suppose the time has  me to discuss the last post I made about being distracted. I have officially (being on Facebook, it MUST be so) made the commitment to be with another man again. As my friend Matt always tells me, he just “assumes it’s always going to be a long story, so you don’t even have to say that  anymore”. I’m not going to go into particulars and great details of the relationship itself as, in typical Michelle style, it would take me far too long to explain and besides – it’s personal. What I will say is that I’ve been entirely swept off my feet by someone who is  fabulous, and gets brownie points for putting up with me. Never an easy feat, and somewhat self-deprecating, so I’ll leave it there.

There are great challenges and difficulties to this relationship, many more than most typical, boy-meets-girl-they-fall-in-love-and-live-happily-ever-after stories., mostly because of the long distance challenges. Having a beau living oversees brings a whole gamut of logistical nightmares, but it’s also become a lot of fun. I have, in a matter of a couple of months, managed to completely make a fool of myself on two separate continents. A part of me has been ignited, and I’ve found out things about me I never could have guessed. As Mark would say to me (and does, quite frequently), the “Cynical Michelle” has been obliterated and in her place a romantic, driveling fool remains. Romantic, fluffy and distracted Michelle has emerged and is seriously annoying everyone in her path. The penultimate eye-roller (my son has me beat, I’m afraid), I’ve received  more looks of exasperation, frustration and yes, eye-rolling since this whole thing began. I never realized how truly debasing and insulting eye-rolling could be up until now!

Initially keeping this newfound sense of joy to myself, I was quickly informed that I was incredibly poor at keeping my secret. I floated, I flitted, I danced and I fairly glowed. They all knew it was love –what they couldn’t figure out was who and the details. I kept it, like cards close to my chest. I would have made an awful poker player – who needs to know WHAT your opponent holds in their hand when they beam like that? You just fold and walk away. Which many people did, throwing their hands up in frustration, knowing they just wouldn’t get anywhere with me.

Like many new couples, especially a couple that are limited to trips when time and finances allow, we counted the days to the next trip with great eagerness. Let it be said – I was simply one of a matched pair –across the ocean sat a man as distracted as myself. Like two children unable to wait another day for Christmas, our conversations and thoughts and emails were punctuated with exasperation at having to wait for any length of time to see each other face to face again. We came up with a perfect solution – a trip in the interim. As it was technically my turn to travel across the pond, I was delighted when one morning I found an electronic ticket in my inbox for a flight to England. As the meaning behind the gift set in, we quickly realized that in our fervid planning we forgot one crucial detail.

“Andy, I don’t have a passport.”

“You don’t?” he asked incredulously.

“No, I mean, I did, I do, but it’s expired,” I answered rather awkwardly.

“Um…Michelle, can you get one in time?”

“Sure! People put rushes on them all the time, I will just have to zip downtown and make sure I get the forms filled out properly, get my photos taken and find a guarantor,” I said, a headache slowly crawling across my brow, trying to make myself believe it would all come together.

I decided, at the suggestion of my cousin and caregiver for Myles to just go to Costco and get my photos taken. Our Costco trips are usually few and far between. Myles and I go shopping quite frequently, and he’s very good about not expecting or wanting things from the store. Costco is the exception. We always buy a book every time we visit. So my son was extremely excited to see us pulling up and bounced and hopped at the end of my arm all the way through the door. The forms completed in my hand, I approached the photo counter.

“Ummy….a new book,”  Myles insisted, pulling against my arm.

“No, Mummy needs to have her picture taken,” I explain, trying to keep him in check and from having a thermonuclear meltdown in Aisle two.

I don’t think I even told Andy that somewhere, buried in the recesses of my car, affectionately known as the “Death Trap” (he has insisted that it’s trying to kill me after a near miss with a transport truck but that’s another story), I have a series of ruined passport photos, with me reaching for Myles, Myles popping his head in the frame, and some where I’m not even visible, and all you can see is a shaggy brown mane and his beautiful eyes peeking into the picture. What you can’t tell from the official photos is that I was holding onto the collar of Myles’ shirt begging him to just sit still. My passport photo looks like most – completely awful. I have a gorgeous wing of hair flying to the left, makeup smudged under my eye, and the red shirt was a terrible choice. The digitization of the photo by Passport Canada has given me the appearance of an early-menopausal woman in the middle of a hot flash retaining about 15 extra pounds of water. Sexy.

I think both of us were cautiously optimistic about my chances of getting my passport in time for my trip, a mere ten days away.

“I wouldn’t worry Andy,” I reassured him, hoping it would quell my own fears. “I’m travelling on an off-season, I’m first there, and the website says I can just pay an extra $30 and get it in time.”

“I know, but until you have it in your hand, I’ll be a little nervous,” he confessed.

Heading downtown at an ungodly hour, when usually I’d be taking a shower or waking up late, I was back on my familiar turf, my old nemesis, my old friend. The bus. I texted him rapidly when I reached my old stop – “I miss the spice of downtown”. And this is still true. I was almost first in line. I presented my paperwork carefully, and the first teller assured me that there was not a backlog of passports and it seemed reasonable target.

“Why did you wait until now to renew your passport?” he said cheerfully, checking my papers and noticing a section I had neglected to fill out.

“I just found out yesterday that I’m going. The trip is really a gift,” I answered carefully.

“Okay – just wait for the teller over there to be ready and fill this section out,” he said, thanking me for my patience.

I waited a few moments, nervous, heart pounding, palms sweating. The place was filling up around me – people arguing about visas, citizenship and happy people collecting completed passports. The counter was busy and when my number was called, I quickly stepped up to the desk.  I was asked basic questions about my previous passport status, my name and personal details, asked to show identification and then he reached the part of my application that listed my anticipated travel date and location. I hastily shoved the copy of the electronic ticket in his hand – Non-refundable highlighted as if a testament to my case.

“Ma’am,” he said, looking tired even at 7:45am, “can I ask you your reason for travel?”

My hands flew to my chest and my eyes softened and I said in a curiously high-pitched and wistful voice, “For love!”

If I live to be a hundred, I know that I will never forget that moment or that day, and if I reach senility and happen to let it slip my mind, I can think of one man who will never forget it either. The chorus of laughter and stares from around me were enough to produce and honest-to-goodness blush. Even the stoic clerk cracked a full smile and promised me my passport would be ready the day before I travelled for “love”.

Of course, I related the story (embarrassed) to Andy, who laughed harder than anyone in that office.

“It’s embarrassing!!” I insisted, still stinging from the laughter and the speculation from the crowd at C.D Howe, downtown Ottawa.

“No it’s not! It’s endearing!” He insisted, but I swear I heard a snort of laughter.

The days seemed to crawl. Making up stories about a mystery trip, no one *quite* believing me, but my ruse was essential for the moment. Completely fearful that I would miss my wakeup call, I reiterated the importance of waking me up while I stayed at my other friend Matt’s house. He needn’t have worried. Sitting bolt upright at 2:30 am , I was ready to begin this epic three-day voyage halfway across the world. A little fuzzy from a delicious homemade moose stew and a few beverages the night before with my friends, I rushed through my shower, checked for the millionth time that I was indeed, in possession of my passport and called Andy. Barging into Matt’s room, I’m sure he rued the day that he promised to drive me to the airport for four am, especially on the day of his highly anticipated laser eye surgery. The volume of my voice was something that he should never have been subjected to, but I managed to stop myself from jumping on his bed to wake him. Matt? I’m really and truly thankful.  And please accept my apologies!

I asked Matt the night before that if he had to describe me, he needed to do so in three words. Peering at me through a haze his cigarette smoke on his front porch, he eyed me carefully and adeptly informed me he could only think of two words – obstreperous and obstinate. I was halfway  insulted, but my determination that morning getting ready to fly to England for the second time in my life, I could only be described as obstinate. Determined. Jittery.

I have a confession to make. I have never in my life flown alone. Especially worried about connecting flights, I was second in line at the
fairly empty and sleepy airport in Ottawa. Described by Andy as a “tin can” or something to that effect, calling “Oddawa” a small and unassuming airport, I, Bluetooth plugged in chattered away in excitement to him an ocean apart. Checking my bag, I made it to the initial customs line, receiving strange looks, as the copious and riotous amounts of curls I was sporting effectively hid the fact that I was indeed, on the phone. In true “me” style, I was subjected to the random body scan, which was not the violation I suspected, but then again, I’m not the one who had to stare at the lumps and bumps on my body via a tv screen.

The entire flight (both of them, I got to see the New York skyline for the first time in my life), were long, uneventful and not worth even describing. The piece de resistance came when I, wearing an almost new
white t-shirt spilled both her meal AND her glass of wine on the collar. This is why I’m not allowed to have nice things. Or white things. Finally, after making three trips around London waiting to taxi, we landed. I survived the Customs wait from hell (my flight companion on the Newark/London leg was friendly and in line behind me counted almost two hundred people in line ahead of us), I was plagued with calls/texts from a very eager man who had been at the airport waiting for me far too early.

“When you come out of Customs, turn left, and I’ll be there waiting,” he carefully explained.

“Okay, no problem…it’s hot in here…why is it SO hot in here?”

“All the people, just remember, there’s a lot of people, I’m to the left when you come out of the door.”

“Yup, left, got it,” I answered, trying to move along with the line.

I must confess. I paused in Customs after I was cleared. I took a deep breath, I collected myself, and declared my now wilted hair and puffy eyes a complete loss. Hoping the lights were dim (and knowing this to be a completely idiotic thought in an airport), I tried to affect an air of levity
and enthusiasm. I exited Customs and summarily turned…right.

Before I continue, I had these thoughts of grandeur. I thought the reunion to be something out of a movie, incredibly romantic, incredibly special, indelible on my mind. I succeeded in making it at the very least indelible.
I turned right. I heard clearly, amongst the throng of waiting loved ones –
“Michelle! Michelle! Other left!!!”

I had of course, turned right. I spun around to see a cast of people laughing at me, and then of course, I saw him. The reunion WAS sweet
and special. But again, it wouldn’t be me if it weren’t a little humorous and completely a slight comedy of errors.

The weekend, was of course, incredible. I still feel like I haven’t been to England properly. Saturday night was special – a nice dinner at an Italian restaurant downtown London. Please don’t ask me where I was in London. I negotiated (no, more like blindly led) train stations, subway stations and emerged in a near-dark European city. I can tell you one thing. I was limping along effectively in heels I haven’t worn with great consistency since breaking my foot earlier this summer and the BBC was pointed out to me. If that means anything to anyone – I was literally four blocks from there. As newly minted lovers, we were of course, completely wrapped up in each other. I distinctly remember on our way back from dinner strolling together, his arm draped around my shoulders, laughing about something and looking into his eyes. We were off the train, preparing to take the elevator to the main level to catch the bus back to the hotel when we rounded a corner, suitably wrapped up in each other, eyes transfixed when we nearly upended some poor woman struggling with a trolley of luggage.

We must have looked like teenagers, unable to keep our gazes from each other’s faces, giggling and sharing silly jokes and things that make no sense except to us. Luckily, the woman negotiating the station found the
situation funny enough to laugh at us. We collected a few stares, most positive and laughing along with the woman, and a few admonishing us for lack of attention at our age. We were not behaving our age. I felt like I was sent back to high school, tasting love for the first time (difference being I get to legally enjoy the wine and drinks I consumed, and I had no curfew) and deciding it was my new favourite dish.

The parting at the end of the trip was sad, of course, but having another Canadian jaunt planned, we weren’t too unbearable to watch in the airport, if you don’t mind two people who can’t look or focus their attention on anything but each other.

Given the difficulties of the relationship, I’ve had naysayers tell me it won’t work or Andy will change his mind. While I don’t lend much credence to these thoughts or opinions (I’m still listening though! Even if I don’t agree), it had me down earlier this week. Waking up to a phone call this early (anywhere from 4am to 5am) has pushed my abilities to be coherent, articulate and generally awesome to a new level. All I can say to those of you who worry – I’ve faced my fears, and when the sun sets at the end of the day, I can live with my choices, and I’m the only person who has to live my life. It’s my polite way of saying, unless I ask for it, I don’t need an opinion at this point. I’ve had my fair share of opinions. It’s like that old poster that reads something like “I can only please one person a day. Today is not your day. Tomorrow does not look good either.”

I’m back to counting days, unfortunately. This is my official notice to friends, family and the like that I am England bound. Not for a short trip, I’m afraid, but for an extended period of time before I can return to Canada. I endeavor to see and visit and share with all of you before I leave. I have answered many questions. I have heard many of your fears and concern for me. I want to assure all of you that this decision has not been made without due consideration, and many sleepless nights. I also want to share that I’m feeling things and experiencing things I never thought possible. I only ask from all of you that you be honest with me, but respect both my privacy and my decision. If you truly like, love and respect me, you’ll understand that I’m doing something that has come with a lot of soul searching and I need your love and good wishes.

Reason for travel?

Love.

The Music Factor

Pete Townsend said that, “The day you open your mind to music, you’re halfway to opening your mind to life.” I’ve thought about this often. Music has the power to move us. It has been said (and I am having problems citing this at the moment) that two things above all else trigger intense memory – smell and sound. We’ve all been sent back in time with the
whiff of a familiar and happy scent, or been drawn back (sometimes entire decades) by a special song. Music to some people is merely the background noise in life, the radio in the morning, something to listen to over supper in a crowded restaurant. Tastes mainstream, a little hackneyed, but always there. Then, there are those of who believe that music is the rhythm of life. The tempo with which we attack our day. Lyrics are quoted, appreciated and shared. Instruments carefully played, enjoyed and to the performers in our lives, the ultimate high.

 

This post, although about music has to do with the most important music and the most important points in our lives. Having gone through a complete epiphany and enormous life change very recently, music has been the one thing (scratch that, one of the ONLY things) that has kept me together and sane.  There has been huge speculation from friends, coworkers, family and the like about exactly “what is going on with Michelle”. Patience. It will all be clear soon. (And no, I’m not pregnant, didn’t elope, haven’t committed a huge crime or decided to change genders, sexual orientation or careers). But I have had a brand new appreciation of how music can really get you through the hard times, the good times, and it made me think about how important it is in my life.

 

Growing up, we learn about music from our parents. In my generation it was a dichotomy between my father’s
eclectic taste of Elvis, The Who, and even folk music to my mother’s admittedly more contemporary or mainstream choices. Driving from Ottawa to Oshawa during the summer months (oh how long that drive was for all of us), he would fill the  distance with singing songs and playing radio-recorded tapes in his black car. Frustrated, cramped and bored, our 3 and 6 year old selves would rely solely on a newly single father for our source of entertainment. When I think of my Dad, these are the golden times. A man of intellect and an overpowering need to prey on the mind of the gullible child were manifested
through musical channels. He would play Jailhouse rock and begin to tell us these long stories about how it was he who wrote Elvis’ music for him, based on his own experiences as a rock star and his days in jail as a drug addled prisoner, who finally saw the light and made and lost a fortune with his songs. Our small minds would listen, rapt with attention and fully naïve and gullible. We would suspiciously eye him and ask “Dad, were you really a rock star? No…you weren’t! When were you born? When was Elvis born? Do you still talk to Elvis?” The sweet summer days of driving to get ice cream and listening to the Drifters sing “Under the Boardwalk” are sun-soaked memories that will stay with me for years. It was a gift.

 

My mother was a gifted singer. I remember her cool, calm voice singing clearly and surely along with songs that she put on her CD Player. No scratchy tape deck for her. I can remember her putting us to bed as young children, my sister falling asleep instantly, and me, lying tucked away in the dark of my room, imagining horrifying things like monsters in the dark and UFOs (thanks Dad for telling me I had to worry about them at five years old), and it would all be okay when my mother put on one of three albums that are on my iPod today – Carly Simon’s “Coming Around Again”, Cher’s album  eaturing “Just like Jesse James” and “Heart of Stone” and the incomparable Dire Straits “Brother In Arms” album. I can hear her singing, and it soothes me. The layout at the family cottage being (or was) very open, evenings there were quiet. CDs would go into the player, and play on random. Falling asleep to this music has given me a soundtrack to a movie, a piece of my life. When I lie on the deck there, to this day, soaking up the sun after swimming all day, I hear Robert Palmer and April Wine. I still see someone tanned and think about telling them I’ve got a “bad case of loving you”. Probably  wouldn’t go over incredibly well.

 

I grew up singing and was encouraged in this activity. My grandmother cultivated this in both my sister and myself. My sister is also a gifted singer – a great regret is that we don’t sing together nearly enough. Car rides as we got older were pierced with the sound of silly duets and rounds. The days before we had game consoles, cd players and movies in the car. We made our own entertainment. I still have people who tell me when they hear “Wind Beneath My Wings” that it’s – totally a thing. It belongs to me. Others remember other songs I’ve sang over the years. One beautiful summer’s eve, when I was still married, my ex-husband and I had a barbeque that turned into a party that had us consuming more alcohol than I thought was possible, and him bringing out his guitar for entertainment, at the request of a friend who knew I had a voice. We had a list of songs we typically could do together, and after hearing me sing “Godspeed”, my friend spent money downloading “Hey There Delilah” on her cell phone and spent over an hour playing it over and over trying to write down the lyrics in order for me to sing it. Having had more alcohol than my liver, head or stomach could take, I passed out far ahead of when she actually finished the lyrics. To this day, I’ve never sang that song, but when I hear it, it takes me back to that night where if it hadn’t been for Natalia and Morley grabbing the back of my shirt, I’d still have third-degree burn scars from falling face first into an open bonfire. Not to mention the fact that Morley’s guitar to this day still has a hole in it from when I put a chair through it. “Hey There Delilah” makes me smile.

 

There are many sad times in my life where music has added to the sheer hurt and pain I was feeling – amplified it. Yeah, I completely went Emo a few times. Dashboard Confessional after breakups, Bonnie Raitt singing “I Can’t Make you Love me”, and a few others. But there are songs of hope too. “Love Somebody Like You” is always a happy summer song that makes me want to smile, roll down the windows and love life. OMC’s “How Bizarre” is always played the first nice day when I can stand the windows down all the way…comfortably. When I need to feel the lake streaming through my fingers and sunsets in a hammock on a secluded mountain lake of my childhood, I simply listen to “Wheat Kings”. When I need to feel a little funky, my latest go to has been a little G.Love or Tristan Prettyman.

 

Lately I’ve been building all new playlists. I’ve eschewed any real upbeat, up-tempo songs in favour of songs with great lyrics that mean a great deal to me. My tastes in the past year reflect the changes within me – Indie music with real instruments, real artists and a real thirst and feeling for life. I’ve discovered Kings of Leon, Mumford and Sons and have cried tears to some Adele. Thanks to others in my life, I’ve also discovered some exciting new music that speaks to me. Discovering old favourites with lyrics that both excite my mind and my new emotions.  I keep returning to “Mirrorball” by a new band to me, Elbow, and am terribly thrilled with Band of Horses. I’m creating new links to new pieces of music. And in the background, I go home, pick up my flute and play Bach and Handel with gusto. A different type of musical connection. Oddly enough, no classical piece ties itself to any particular memory or time. It seems it may be the lyrics which tattoo themselves permanently on memories. Classical music is the background music of my world. Something so familiar, almost mathematically calculated, and beautiful in its own right.

 

To my friends who are a little ambivalent or don’t find music as exciting – this may seem so silly to you. To the most special people in my life who I KNOW share these emotions, a fellow kinship we have. Some of us may share the same songs and mutual experiences that draw us to those musical compositions. In that case, I’m tied to you for life! I’ve mentioned several of you above.  Ray Charles said that “I was born with music inside me. Music was one of my parts. Like  y ribs, my kidneys, my liver, my heart. Like my blood. It was a force already within me when I arrived on the scene. It was a necessity for me-like food or water.” How incredibly apt.

The Sleep Factor

 

Anyone who knows me has probably heard me say at least once, “I will trade sleep for
practically anything.” I’ve been known to eschew the rest I need just to do
something more interesting. Ever since my separation from my ex-husband (I am
in possession of my divorce certificate now, so it’s official), I have been
doing many fun, interesting things. A second wind, a chance to change the
things I was unhappy with. My weekends are no longer about couch surfing, house
cleaning and arguing over which movie or tv show we want to watch. In fact, I
don’t even have cable anymore. A complete waste of money, time and life. An
inveterate planner, I map out my month in advance, happily colour-coding my
Excel spreadsheets, and searching the internet for fun activities in Ottawa, or
simply exploring old haunts to create new memories. Sometimes alone, sometimes
dragging along unsuspecting friends, with the promise and lure of an excellent
time.

 

My mother always told everyone how fortunate she was to have three good sleepers.
We were never early risers, we slept through the night early, and I was even
four days late in my arrival into this world (the biological version of hitting
the snooze button). No one particularly appreciates being woken up either. Some
handle it with ease, and can be polite to the offender. As a self-professed
night owl, I am one of those few people that experience a feeling of vile
hatred for the person who dares rouse me from the delicious reprieve of sleep.
I’m an expert at ignoring alarms (I have three, all set at different
intervals), and truly miserable for at least half an hour. My mother used to
get sick of hearing the barbs of my insults, and would send the dog to jump on
my bed. This tactic proved successful for exactly a week, until the lazy Golden
Retriever learned she could curl up with me and go back to sleep herself. Once
we acquired Maddison, the parrot, she would send her into my room instead – the
bird was persistent, sitting on my chest, refusing to be ignored, chanting
“hello”, over and over until I would finally admit that my time to sleep was
coming to an end.

Not only was I difficult to rouse, I was also one of those people that was
completely useless unless I had at least eight hours of sleep. Foul, with a
scowl on my face until my body caught up with me around lunchtime. The smallest
things would set me off – the sound of an annoying laugh, someone standing too
close to me, you name it. I’ve learned since reaching adulthood that I can
usually avoid these feelings of contempt if I allow myself half an hour in
which to check my email, sit on my deck with a book, make lunches – some
mundane task that requires little thought, quiet time and allows me to slowly
acclimate to the new day at hand. I’m extremely lucky that my three year old
sleeps later than me (he’s repeating the cycle of a child who loves and needs
sleep), or when he gets up wants to play with his trains for as long as I am
happy to leave him. For as much as he enjoys daycare, he ultimately wants me to
stay at home with him.

 

I can pinpoint the exact time when I started to be able to function successfully on
less than eight hours of sleep. I had a very good pregnancy, but at the very
end, I had problems with my sciatic nerve, and would spend hours lying awake in
pain and attempting to find a position that was comfortable. Anyone who has
been eight months pregnant understands this is a fruitless task. Unable to toss
and turn and find a new position in which sleep was comfortable I suffered and
learned to cope with a watermelon essentially strapped on my front, in pain,
tired and trying to be pleasant. Ever since I was eight months pregnant, I was
biologically prepared for less than a desirable amount of sleep.

 

When Myles was born, I used to stay awake for hours, watching him sleep and breathe.
Another truth of new parents – we are terrified, after being inundated with
frightening propaganda that SIDS might steal away our otherwise healthy infant.
I got over this, somewhat. I still check for the regular rise and fall of Myles’
chest as he sleeps peacefully (or not so peacefully since his fear of the dark
and nightmares have consumed him). I awake some mornings to a small three year
old body tucked firmly against mine, knowing he found solace in my company each
evening.

 

In reference to my last blog post, my “Distraction” (worthy of capital letters, it’s
a thing now), has started to change the way I sleep and look at the necessity
of sleep. Where mornings were made for sleeping in, they are now for waking
before my alarm, chipper and excited. Where I used to be grumpy, it’s easily
fixed by a first cup of coffee. I’ve started talking early morning to all the
other early morning people around me. To watch the sun rise in the morning
while having a lovely conversation has become a gift I wasn’t prepared for.
Myles is confused – watching his mother zip around in the morning between
computer, phone and kitchen is a new sight for him. Music permeates the
otherwise quiet hours, and I’m ready to LIVE. His punishment has turned into a
form of sadistic torture, which includes insisting that we watch Alvin and the
Chipmunks non-stop. Or refusing to get into the car in the morning. Laptop bag,
purse, lunch and now gym bag hang from my shoulders, cutting in, while he
stands there, crosses his arms and issues a steady stream of NO. I am still
trying to figure out who is more stubborn – him or me. I feel like I’m fighting
a losing battle.

 

In my life I’ve started to come to the conclusion that sleep is highly overrated.
When I absolutely need rest, I can usually find it. A nap here, a quiet night
there. But life has opened its doors to me since my divorce, and I’ve had an
incredible amount of fun learning just who I am and the treasures within it. And
just in case I really can’t cope, there is an abundance of coffee to help me
along in my journeys. I never ever remember losing sleep. I remember the
memories I’ve made. Unique things I would have missed out on had I been a
responsible adult who recognized the value of a good night’s sleep. Recent
events in my life have added credence to the new mantra that “sleep is
overrated. Sleep is overrated.” I wrote most of this over the course of several
sleepless nights however. For all I know I live the life of Tyler Durden,
causing mayhem wherever I go, my days blissfully unaware of my transgressions.
Most likely not, but who knows? Maybe I’m tired…

The Distraction Factor

I haven’t written a lighter post in quite some time. I’ve
been busy with work and Myles and admittedly…other things. I’ve been
distracted. Completely and utterly distracted. A few of you are mired in the
day-to-day drama that is my life, and while you probably wish you weren’t, my
insistence that you listen to my moaning and groaning about minor things that
mean nothing to you seems to be stronger than your ability to hang up the
phone. My life, luckily, and unluckily is an adventure. I wake up each day in
the warm security of my blankets and wonder what the day will bring me.

 

I can usually complete minor tasks and even significant
tasks without losing concentration, no matter what happens around me. I know
I’ve written posts about missing buses and forgetting things, or losing twenty
dollar bills due to my haste and lack of ability to pay attention when getting
on a bus, but professionally, I’ve managed to keep my cool, going about
business, even if everything around me seems to be falling apart or becoming
something incredible. I must be getting old.

 

I have always told people that while I had given birth to
the side of my brain that controls memory and pure logic along with my 7 pound,
8 ounce son, that I also acquired a true talent for balancing many things at
once. Schedules, Myles, work, and a social life. Oh, a social life. I feel like
a hotel at times – book ahead, hold with a credit card and come again soon. But
book well ahead, because there are
peak times. Not that I’m incredibly popular, but I take control of my social
life with my friends. I try and keep in touch and fill up my spare time with
fun activities and fun friends. I like to think I make a good friend.

 

Lately, I’ve noticed a slight paradigm shift. The other
morning, I came downstairs, turned on the coffee maker, chatted on the phone
with a friend, and upon hanging up the phone noticed that the previous evening
I had put the sour cream in my cupboard instead of the fridge, and the Oregano
was neatly tucked into the door of my fridge, next to the lemon juice. Sighing,
and frustrated at the loss of half a tub of sour cream I’d planned on for
supper preparations that night, I discarded of what was left over and moved the
oregano back to the neatly ordered spices (in alphabetical order, of course). I
suddenly heard a loud screech from the living room. “Traiiiinnnsss…..nooooo!!!
Mummy!” Myles has recently been developing an interesting, if repetitive
imagination, and we’ve been arguing about going to bed because he’s afraid of
the dark. I wondered what new monsters had been created in his limited scope of
experience that he had to draw on. I had accidentally, thrown his trains in a
garbage bag in an effort to clean. The poor child was standing, crying his
three-year-old heart out, traumatized that the mother he loves and trusts had
calmly disposed of all his beloved train collection. I’m sure this will be a
moment that stays with him. And I have to live with that.

 

Nothing I’ve done has been intentional, of course. I have
recently had a lot of changes. One of them was (at the risk of getting a little
personal here, and slightly straying from my pact to make this post as
light-hearted as possible) the end of an on-again-off-again relationship I had
had since last fall. Very casual and very much about spending time with someone
and appreciating another person who has the same penchant for current affairs,
politics and … that’s pretty much it. The visits became obligatory, a little
boring and the companionship non-existent. After exchanging some…shall we say
words, we decided parting company would be the best decision for all concerned.
I’m used to things ending amicably, and the complex relationship with an
ex-husband aside, I am friends with the other two men that had been in my life
before, and speak to them quite frequently. Ending with hurtful words and
targeted insults is not something I’m entirely used to. It gave me an immense
amount of closure and a good, positive feeling that I was absolutely doing the
right thing.

 

One would think that this situation would cause me some
distraction, but instead, I felt nothing but relief. To make an inference as to
why I am truly distracted lately would be to speak of things that I’m not ready
to yet – all I have to say is that life is a little exciting, and I’ve once
again, created an epic Fall season that will be much fun for me. As many of you
know, and anyone who reads my blog knows, you aren’t surprised to hear me say that
I’m excited for the end of summer. Counting the days until the leaves start to
turn. This whole week, the weather at night has been enticingly crisp, and I’ve
been sleeping well, windows thrown open, waking up with a cold nose, reaching
for my phone to check my email. Eager to begin my day.

 

I think a lot of my distraction stems from upcoming events.
I am planning on two concerts with good friends. Visits from family and more
friends. The fireworks of fall. Work will be busy and consuming. All will be much
fun. But it reached a point on Monday and today that I realized how distracted
I have become. Part of my job entails making travel arrangements. After a
clear, concise email, I managed to book the flight at the right time with the
two correct locales, but reversed. Hard to fly out of the airport you want to
fly into. I begged Air Canada to amend the mistake and waive the fees. They
were surprisingly generous. I booked the rental car, happy I’d dodged the
bullet. (Consequently, the manager pulled me aside today and informed me I
booked it in the wrong city). Today, I visited the gym downstairs at work for
the first time. Got so distracted in a text message, either my ipod or phone
fell, went zooming off the treadmill and hit the wall. I was so distracted and
embarrassed picking it up, I don’t remember which one. And the entire gym
stopped to look.

 

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going senile at this age, if
upcoming events are on my mind a little too much, but I’m turning into a
complete scatterbrain. My lists, while once to keep me organized, may become
essential in my bid to re-join the human race. I’m sure eventually I’ll work
things out, but for now, if I seem a little distracted ….wait, what did you ask
again?

The Relationship Factor

 

I remember when the movie “Castaway” came out in theatres. I
thought that a movie with Tom Hanks sitting on a beach for three hours may be a little tedious. His only interaction with a volleyball named Wilson sounded more like an educational after-school special on building an interest in sports and imagination for kids than a feature film for adults. Consequently, I DID go to see it, and it was fabulous. The movie highlighted the struggle to survive against all the odds, and the strength of human relationships. His undying love for Helen Hunt’s character was heartbreaking. Believing he was dead, she moved on, leaving him to cope with the pain of losing after surviving so much. It also illustrated the common trend of working too much, and letting trivial things get in the way of our personal lives. How in the blink of an eye, everything can change.

 

I didn’t lend much credence to this theory at first. Oh, I understood the implications, and that I should live my days to their fullest, and appreciate the sheer beauty of life. But let’s be honest here – I was far too young to understand the depth of love. Or so I thought at the time. This post is about the feelings we have for the people in our lives. Family, friends, coworkers and romantic relationships. For I’ve learned something. The best relationships make you a better person. They ignite something deep inside you and make you softer, warmer and truly thankful for the beauty of life.

 

There are points in your life when you become acutely aware of how important other people are in your life. Births, deaths, a cataclysmic
change. When you are a toddler, you follow your mother blindly, and protest when she even leaves the room. My parents separated when I was just five years old. While I barely remember the details, I remember the sheer relief when I would go to either parent’s house, feeling a wash of security and safety that they were still there for me. No offense dad (If you’re reading this), but the sweet comfort of your mother’s arms when you’re sick or sad brings you ameasure of peace and tranquility in the vast ocean of uncertainty of this big life that’s just outside. Daunting, to the mere child.

 

We begin to take the love and support of parents for granted (and they struggle in vain to maintain that love and support through our
growing pains) as we reach our teenage years. The social struggles of friends and learning to fit into the world around us becomes something that dominates our existence. Girls are mean. Boys are unforgiving. We get our hair pulled, our feelings hurt, we have best friends we insist will be with us for life (I’m lucky enough to have a couple of these friends I made promises to as a naïve 12 year old) and we write notes and pass them in class. Everything is centered around the playground social tiers, and what we wear, say and do. Eventually we move onto high school. Grade nine has to be the most humbling social experience for anyone. Used to ruling the roost in elementary school, we are thrust into
the throng of people on our first day, groping for familiarity. High school
defines who we will become. We make life altering decisions before we can legally drive a car, drink a bottle of beer or vote.

But one of the most important relationships we cultivate in our youth (for some of us) is our first true romantic experience. Some of us
start young, some of us start when we go to University, but to anyone who has had the opportunity to taste young love is mired in memories right now. It’s incredibly simple, incredibly driven by hormones, and completely consuming.

Your entire life becomes seeing that person. Phone calls, notes passed, fishing from their friends to find out exactly what they think of you. The nervousness behind that first kiss and how heady the feeling is. You simply have to see that person walking down a hallway, or hear their voice and the physical reaction is astonishing to our young bodies. The pounding of your heart, and the fluttering of your stomach. Alas, everything must come to an end (at least for most of us), and typically in a very dramatic fashion.

We start to develop new areas of our life. We settle into jobs, careers, responsibilities, and learn the tenacious co-worker relationship. Sometimes strained, sometimes we meet new friends, but navigating
the professional world can be tenuous at best. I will simply leave this section of our evolution untouched. All I have to add is some of my greatest friends have been coworkers. And I am lucky enough to have had them on my team. Work occasionally needs to be punctuated with levity and true collaboration, as well as fun. We tend to think of our jobs as incredibly serious business. But sometimes the friend/coworker relationship can work to our advantage, and produce truly spectacular results. I was fortunate that my past co-workers put up with my choices in music, my inability to function first thing in the morning
and my over-caffeination (okay, we all got like that occasionally. I was never guilty of keeping a carafe at my desk).

 

Next, we are supposed to (by North American or European
social standards and expectations) meet the person who we will fall in love with, marry and build a life with. A few of us tend to leave behind the expectations we had in high school of love that is almost entirely driven by hormones. The reality is, and this is coming from someone who is divorced of course, and probably didn’t feel what she was supposed to (we remain friends, of course), the person we’re supposed to be with should excite us. I know what I want moving forward. I don’t think I’m too old to feel true romanticism if I came across it. Part of me wonders if there is a person out there who will completely transform me. Going purely on speculation of course, I imagine it would involve the same types of physical reactions that you experience in your
teenage years – a queasy stomach, palpating heart, flushed face and skin. I’m not sure if I’m describing love here, or a bad reaction to Chinese food.

I digress. Honesty? I just want what everyone else wants. Totally. The feeling of euphoria, the feeling that the person I’m with is transforming me from a fully functional adult into a fully non-functioning mess. My thoughts completely permeated with them. Our mutual interests heralded as mutual excellent taste, our differences to be respected and awed. The other person should make you feel beautiful, exceptional, special, one-of-a-kind and unique (essentially, you become a walking thesaurus).  The mad rush of love you feel when you look deeply into their eyes. The urge to be with them every minute you can. Being a
self-professed introvert, the latter may be a challenge – if I can find that
person with whom I want to be with that much, I may have to start believing in the institution of marriage, or some other convention which ties them to me just as firmly as our gazes do. Kidding of course.

The problem with relationships is that people ask you what your “type” is and what you want. I hate laundry lists (although I make them
with as much gusto as anything else). I always believed when I found THE person this time around that it would make me fold my list quietly and when I have a moment alone, burn it for ever trying to define the remarkable person in front of me with a piece of paper and some ink. I want someone who will turn me from a sarcastic, too loud woman, into someone who is a sappy romantic at heart. Who makes me look at each song I listen to and sing and play it for them. Who can just turn me upside down a little. Okay…a lot.

The last type of relationship that I need to mention is the one I have with my child. In speaking of love, I’ve never felt a rush of love like I have for my son. When he was born, I was astonished by the magnitude of
love I felt for a human being I’ve never met before. And to this day, no one can look at me and move me more than him. I’m human – there are moments when it’s hard and he is cranky, and I just want to sleep, but I never stop loving him. My love for him is constantly evolving. The problem with most relationships, especially romantic ones, is that they do not typically evolve the same way our relationships with our children do. If we were a little more communicative (would you hesitate to tell your child when you were upset with them? And rationally?) and let ourselves adapt and change through the years the same way
we did with our children, relationships would work a little better.

The Seasonal Change Factor

Living in Canada, the most beautiful, diverse nation, we are
fortunate enough to experience the change of the seasons every year. Let Cuba
have their heat and palm trees, I look forward to seeing the world around me
change every few months. Each season brings memories, tastes and smells that
are savored on the tongue, ears and eyes. Edith Piaf wrote the iconic French
song, “La Vie en Rose”, about seeing through rose-coloured glasses. I think I
look to whichever season that I’m not currently experiencing and I feel much
the same way as she did. I fear I get a little philosophical and fanciful when
recalling the golden days of summer, or the feeling of snowflakes on my
eyelashes. Call me a romantic. No scoffing in the back row, occasionally I DO
emote and become whimsical. I strictly adhere to the seasonal stereotypes as
far as activities and feelings.

 

This winter felt uncommonly long. I have been contemplating
this post for quite some time, and waiting for the warm weather to permeate the
perma-frost of my cynical winter-self and allow me to mellifluously express
what I’m really feeling. The winter months always start with gusto – the crisp
feeling of a cold winter wind on your face, the excitement as you pull your
skis out to be sharpened and waxed and plan the ultimate ski experience. This
always ends when I find the cost has gone up, and wondering how much longer I
can get by on dull skis, due to my reticence to pay for anything that I could
learn to do myself. The fantasy of the perfect ski day is also marred by the
eventual realization that after I’ve skied several runs, my legs start
protesting. Oh, Grade 11 biology – if you taught me anything, it’s about the
lactic acid production and exercise. So, by lunchtime, I take my sore body in
for lunch, only to discover that the lines are horrendous, the only table left
has a mystery sauce on the tabletop and I spill my coffee. I have learned to
cope with the weekend ski experience – I avoid it at all costs. I sneak out of
the house on a Monday morning, drive quietly up to the hill, and enjoy the calm
of a hill that is still sleeping. My skis cut great swaths through the freshly
packed powder, and the brilliance of the snow hurts my eyes, and gives me my
winter tan. It’s a warm balm on my chilly, winter soul. This past winter, I
spent my spare time taking winter walks, bundled against the pervasiveness of
the cold, wandering around Parliament Hill, and through the forest, watching
the world in its snowy blanket waiting for the sun to give birth to spring.

 

Every winter I anticipate spring to descend on us like it
does in Alberta, with warm Chinook winds announcing the arrival of warm
weather. It always amazes me that I’m wearing a heavy winter coat one day,
scarf perennially at my throat, searching for my mittens and boots, and two
weeks later, watching the buds emerge on the trees, ready to burst into full
summer splendor.  The spring rain washes the world around me like a young
girl preparing her hair for a dance, letting it dry in warm spring breezes and
adorning it with a wreath of delicate flowers and leaves. I used to be entirely
torn on how I felt about spring. The advent of warm weather brought longer
evenings – the sun’s rays like weak, warm fingers grasping at the horizon at
the end of each day. But it also brought true hassle – owning horses, we fought
with the reality of mud, paddocks trying to sprout green, fertile shoots, only
to be trampled by the eager hooves of horses happy to shed their winter coats
and blankets. The most resilient plant in the world, the grass rebounds, but
even the hardiest varieties fall prey to small paddock and rowdy equines.
Living and working in the city this year did nothing further to endear me to
spring weather. The melting snow unearthed the dirt, garbage and salt of the winter.
Instead of leaving a pristine landscape behind, we watch as street sweepers
attempt to rid the city of the blackened silt and grime that’s left in the wake
of the increasing temperatures melting their cover. So spring, while a
wonderful reprieve from the harsh needles of the winter air is welcome, it’s a
period of renewal, growth, and cleaning.

 

Just as I am assimilating to the new temperatures and the
small leaves struggling to increase their size daily, the first days of true
heat and humidity shock us out of the perpetual sense of status quo and push us
into summer. Living in Calgary, I relished the transition from spring to
summer. The warm winds raced down the mountains and foothills with the scent of
mountain rivers and pine trees. The humidity was never pervasive, the sun
always strong and sure, and the fields filled with thigh-high grass which moved
with every puff and whiff of wind. Gophers, poking their heads up from between
mounds dart and signal danger. Oh, the west. Gertrude Stein wrote that,
“America is my country and Paris is my hometown”. I will always feel that way
whenever I drive over the hill in Alberta and spy the mountains. While Ottawa
is my country, Calgary will be my personal hometown. My summer of driving
through the mountains and experiencing a different way of life is a wonderful
memory. My summers here, although filled with the humidity that can sometimes
cause me to be a tad cranky, are likewise filled with memories, adventures and
beauty. The one thing that the west never had to offer me was enough deciduous
trees. The lacy canopy above my head when I set out on the trail, or lie on a
blanket with my sketch book put me at ease. The backroads I learned to drive on
are memorized by the potholes and gentle bends that make up the map of my
childhood. To drive with the window down, music on my radio, and the sun
dancing on my arm fills me with a sense of belonging to the world around me and
an incredible inner peace. The sound of the cicadas herald summer, their song
as profound as any classical piece written. Nature’s orchestra.

 

To me, to truly enjoy summer, there needs to be water. Being
an inveterate fish, I have spent more hours than I care to count on the lake in
boats, or simply wading.  The only time I can appreciate true heat and
humidity is with a toe in the water. Some of the best summer memories I have
(other than the horse shows, hacks, and other activities I won’t  go into
detail about) are spending them at the cottage, living in bathing suits,
napping in hammocks and eating more corn than I ever thought humanely possible.
Other great summer memories include camping in Algonquin Park, moaning and
complaining about hauling a boat and all of our gear, and being rewarded with a
blanket of stars so bright at night, it illuminates our faces and stills our
tongues in sheer awe. It puts our diminutive size and location in perspective.
It is then that I feel numinous – and incredibly dwarfed. One summer in
particular, while driving, my father and I had to stop the car outside of the
city and get out to watch the Northern Lights bounce around the sky, shifting
and changing in shape and colour, not even talking about the science that made
it possible. Just completely grateful and in awe of what we were seeing.

 

Just as I finally accept the lazy days of summer, and get
used to swimming and walking and hiking and, and and…fall makes her debut.
Always suddenly, with a cold, crisp rain that signals the debut of the season.
Fall is Nature’s finale of the year. The encore to the spring and summer, and
she never disappoints. The leaves, unable to keep up their production of the
life giving, green chlorophyll, show their true colours in a display so bright
it hurts the eyes. The air changes. Almost as if you were inland and breathed
the first ocean air when you get to the coast, the moist, green summer smell
gives way to woodsmoke, snow, and cool air in an irresistible mélange that
prompts me to pull out my favourite sweater, an oversized coffee and sit on a
chair and watch the fireworks. I become very excited and feel extremely
romantic – the entire experience ignites an energy in me. I can finally shed
the humidity and be comfortable outdoors again! The bugs are gone! I take walks
hours long in the evenings and at least one through a wooded trail, spotting
the partridge and deer as they frantically scramble for cover amongst the dying
bramble.  The shortening evenings beg us to retire to a cozy house under a
blanket, in front of a fire shared with our most special person. Ah, fall.

 

The tone of this post is much different than my other posts.
It reflects the way I feel whenever a season changes and since I heard my first
cicada last weekend, it has to be said – Welcome, Summer.

The Moving Garbage Disposal Unit

                     I am the world’s worst car owner. I absolutely deserve a medal, or a kick in the pants. There are several reasons why I have merited this award, and I’m surprised my car has put up with me this long. Before you get the wrong impression of me, it has to be said that I strive to keep my house clean. (Stop laughing, Mom). Given the crazy schedule I have with Myles, there is always one week where I have him very little, and one week, where it seems he lives in my back pocket. I’m not complaining about how much I get to see him on my week, but I wish it were a little more balanced. The week I don’t have him my house is tidy, easy to keep clean, save a few dishes, and vacuuming up after the bird. Having people over at the last minute does not necessitate any big cleaning projects and my house has even been described by some as “spartan”. The week I do have him is another story. It seems like he follows me around like Pig-Pen from the Peanuts cartoons, in a cloud of sticky, dusty, dirty mess, toppling my books on my book shelf, dumping his toys out in my hallway and using a new dish for every single thing he eats. Eating a banana? Use a fork! AND a plate! Weekends are a lost cause – I clean in the evenings, giving up on trying to keep the mayhem completely controlled during daytime hours.

While I love the Dollar Store for their help in keeping everything I have organized, and I do my daily ritual of cleaning (I have a spreadsheet on my fridge with daily chores; set out in a two week schedule, with the second week more of a hope-I-get-it-done outline) there seem to be two places in my life where things could not stay clean OR organized. At least visually organized. One is my desk – but don’t touch the piles of paper, because I know where everything is! And the other is my car. 

I drive a very old, very battered Cavalier. I chuckle at the people I know who care about tiny scratches in the paint job of their two year old car, and buy the car wash along with their gas. These are the same people that on the first nice day pull out an entire car cleaning bucket and spend an entire afternoon detailing their vehicle. It’s not that I think it’s a fruitless venture, it’s just that my car is so beyond the time I would waste on this that I have officially given up. The sides look like I buffed it with steel wool, and the right front bumper proudly sports battle wounds of my ex-husband’s attempt to kill a large buck last spring. Epic.

My first car was my pride and joy. After selling my first horse, I went out and bought a beautiful Civic in cash. I had the car serviced and tuned up by a family friend who is a mechanic specializing specifically in Hondas and Toyotas and kept it fairly neat and tidy. I had a spot for my cds, a great little tailgate on the car, and a sunroof. It truly was a wonderful car. It got me around Ottawa, and it also took me to Calgary. I drove to Banff, Lake Louise, Spruce Meadows, and one weekend that I never talk about, it took me into the foothills of the Rockies camping. THAT was one heck of a weekend. You could also tell that I didn’t have kids at that point – unless I had to take more than one other person with me, the backseat was perpetually folded down, out of use, free of Cheerios, Batman figurines and mystery crumbs. When I got together with my ex-husband we ended up selling the car (I’m still not sure why) and lived without for a time. I still wistfully think of my beautiful little red sports car with feelings of regret for selling her, and shake my head at the things I put her through and the wonderful places she took me. It was more than a conveyance – it was the vehicle that helped me discover Canada, and discover who I was. It could fit more things inside it than most new cars, and was cheap to fix. It also cost me $27 in those days to fill it from empty and could go more than 600km on that one tank of gas.

So the car I have now is more of a means of getting places than something I have an emotional attachment to. I inherited it when my ex-husband got the vehicle he has now, and the work that was supposed to be done on it was never completed. I never knew that a front end of a car could deteriorate so quickly until I met my ex-husband. He is one of those drivers that I regularly curse at. Our mornings of carpooling together were a test for our relationship. Looking back, I find it amazing we stayed together for SO long. Driving in from the country, we took the Queensway, and my ex-husband was most regularly the driver. He would drive in the left-hand lane, never creeping above 105 km/h, and would yell out loud at the people who would, out of frustration, pass us on the right hand side. His argument was, he was going above the speed limit, and he had every right to drive in that lane. I would ask him if he’d ever seen the signs “keep right except to pass”. We never could agree on the proper “Road Etiquette”.

While he loved to drive slowly, and me being an awful backseat driver who appreciated him exercising caution, his city driving was something that frightened me at times. And explained why we were constantly requiring new bearings, and breaks and why the alignment was always off. He would sedately drive at the maximum of 60 km/h and then at the red light/stop sign/merge lane slam on the breaks. Taking off around the corner reminded me of a teenager showing off for his friends or girlfriend. Heavy on the gas pedal, and whipping around the corner, occasionally squealing the tires! This makes me slightly concerned for my son’s safety these days, but I have to have hope that he drives a little differently with him in the car. I know that if he doesn’t, Myles has inherited my annoying habit of telling others how to drive. And he’s loud. Very loud. For lack of a better term, payback’s a bitch. It’s only recently that my ex-husband has sheepishly admitted these transgressions – he used to flatly deny the allegations that he was a terrible driver.

So when I started driving this piece of garbage (excuse me.. “Ummy’s car. Ummy’s BLACK car”, according to Myles), I was happy to have my own car again that I didn’t have to share (the last time I had a car to myself was October 20^th, 2004), and knew the maintenance would be MUCH lower. I was SUCH a good driver! I was moving to the city again, so my driving would be limited to dropping Myles off at daycare, the park and ride and occasionally my mother’s house. And for the most part this has been true. I know there are people in my life that would love if I could make trips that entailed driving out of my comfort zone or long distances – downtown (Richard, I WILL make it to Centretown to visit, I promise, maybe I’ll just bus) and to Toronto area to see friends and family. Some want me to bring my child along, others would prefer I just left him with his father. Generally, the only places I go that aren’t related to Myles, work, family or errands is the occasional visit to friends’ houses.

I’ve always been used to living in a real house, where I can park beside my door, and bring in items at my leisure. Living where I’m at the mercy of a shared elevator and park in a lot, as well as half the time being alone with Myles, I don’t always get to bring in things I’ve left in my car until I have the available arm space. A trip upstairs is a little different than a trip through the back door. Slowly, I have been amassing a collection of items in my car that ensures if I ever get stranded, I could survive for at least a week. While at a friend’s house, we watched the breaking news story of the woman who lived in the Nevada desert for almost two months on a sip of water and a tiny bite of food a day – I assumed I could fare much better and for longer, because I had an entire glove box full of food for Myles, a complete wardrobe in my trunk (for both myself, AND my child), as well as assorted items including candles, blankets, two umbrellas, a flashlight, a gas can, toys, diapers, a collapsible playpen, wipes, reading materials, cosmetics, iPod, colouring books and crayons, blankets, a tent, and various other things that have slowly made their way into my travelling home. This car has seen me through three homes, it’s become a constant!

I kept meaning to get rid of the excess baggage I was carrying. I got lazy – I left some old coffee cups, some paper bags, used newspaper and Myles was beginning to just throw things around in the car. The backseat upholstery (the section you could see, mind you) was getting a new look from my son, who carefully interspersed circle stickers at noticeable intervals with a look of self-satisfaction accompanied by a “there you go!” when he’d found just the right spot for the latest adhesive shape he’d pulled off his face. Besides, a thorough mucking out would require me to be within close proximity to a fifty gallon drum, a few heavy duty garbage bags and my apartment to be able to dump the articles I absolutely did not need to be cluttering up my car.

So this past weekend, I loaded up my vehicle, loaded Myles into my Mom’s car with her, and drove off to her house to spend some time with her. Myles was beside himself with excitement – he got to ride in Grammy’s car! Grammy’s car has Thomas on 24-7 on his own personal TV screen, is climate controlled and he’s guaranteed to either go to McDonald’s, Tim Hortons, Grammy’s House or all three. Very important things to an almost-three-year-old. I was happy to have room to bring a little laundry and all the things I needed to get through a weekend without having to pack them precariously around Myles in the backseat, because I’d run out of room yet again. (That, and I had the bird with me for the weekend, so I had even LESS space available!). By Sunday, it was obvious that I needed to reorganize in order to be able to make it back to the city. So I began the daunting task of cleaning my car.

I ditched the gas can in the garage (I really have no place to put it at my apartment, unless I choose to live with the smell of ethanol permeating everything I own), returned the playpen to it’s rightful home at my mom’s, broke down a few large boxes and filled an extra-large, heavy duty garbage bag 2/3 full of things I simply didn’t need. I packed the trunk neatly (it’s still full-ish) and slowly the seats began to take shape under the rubble. The interior of my car is black? Really? I won’t bore you with the colour that the anti-bacterial wipes turned when I cleaned all the non-fabric surfaces of the interior, but I was slightly horrified. It had been almost nine months since it had had a good cleaning. I would have vacuumed, but I had a frantic little boy with his face pasted against the door who was worried that I was going to take off at any second in my pjs and flip flops with my hair in a delightful fuzzy halo around my head, and my eyes framed by smudged mascara. He has much to learn about what is acceptable “going-out” attire.

I was proud of myself though. I would have room to bring home groceries, I could have passengers other than Myles and Maddison, and I would be a good car owner! Just like a spring cleaning in your house, a clean car feels oh-so-good. Once packed, and ready to go, I pried my overtired child from his Aunt’s arms, crying, and put him into his seat, hoping he would notice my efforts (instead, I got a renewed round of tears because his books were not neatly rested on the playpen that usually sat within reach). I put the key in, and instead of the car starting as it usually does, I got a horrible rumbling, and the RPM’s were dancing a little wildly.

I have had this vague malaise that something bad was going to happen to my car and soon. I wasn’t sure what was wrong once I turned that key, but it had to be something serious. My abilities to diagnose what’s wrong with a car come from personal experience only. Overheating? Add coolant, if that doesn’t work, replace thermostat, if THAT doesn’t work, check the hoses, and if all else fails, it must be a pesky head-gasket. I managed to get into the city, and drop Myles off. Realizing what a terrible car owner I have been (I need new tires, and can’t remember the last time I got an oil change or a new filter for that matter) I rushed off to Walmart and bought oil (5W-30 – right? It SAID all domestic brands) and some anti-freeze, as occasionally the temperature would go higher than I would like, and put it all in the car. Putting fluids in a car is something I’m somewhat of an expert on. I even had a spare oven mitt in a bag in the trunk, so that I didn’t scald myself opening the anti-freeze section of my engine.

I started the car again – same noise, same shuddering. Frustrated, and a little worried, I got out, and decided to check again. Surely, a person with NO automotive experience, but a keen interest in diagnosing and fixing any problems herself could locate and solve anything wrong with her own car. After all, it was my own negligence that got me here. I noticed something black and hairy trailing from the muffler of my car. I groaned. Obviously, some misguided creature had crawled into my muffler and I was responsible for it’s death. I had this horrible mental image, of me yanking out a dead squirrel from the bank of my car in the Walmart parking lot. I also had fleeting thoughts that the dirt and miscellaneous items in my car where what was causing it to function day in and day out. Kind of a “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” scenario. This is embarrassing for me to admit. I was fairly ignorant as to how an exhaust system worked, and was unaware of things such as insulation in mufflers and sound-proofing (thank you, How Things Work online). Had I kept pulling, I would have pulled out all the insulation and been in a real fix.

I have contacted someone who has agreed to help me with my car. It’s like going to the dentist after you’ve been avoiding it for a matter of years. We all tell our dentist that “of course I floss! Twice a day, every single day.” It’s slightly uncomfortable to know you haven’t taken great care of your automobile and you know you’ll get a lecture and an appointment to come back every three months or five thousand kilometres. Hopefully you don’t get the talk which is similar to when you have a painful tooth – “I’m sorry, but it’s too far gone.” Let me say now that while my visits to the dentist are spotty at best, they usually go well, and one of the things I’m completely anal about is the care of my teeth. My recent impaction and infection of my wisdom teeth are completely out of my control and have nothing to do with my negligence. I’m afraid the mechanic will say the same thing about my car – that despite the best care, it’s time to replace her.

So I’ve given my car the temporary, band-air repair job. She started with no issues last night, and drove me happily where she needed to go, screeching as we slowed down, but I got no wild tremors and the fear that as I slowed down we would explode slightly dissipated. Kind of like Speed…in a car! I promised her I would take care of her. To the bitter end. So maybe I’m not deserving of the “Bad Car Owner of the Year” after all?